LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Shelf .,.M..i 7 G-^ 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



GOD'S PARABLE 



AND OTHER POEMS 



BY 

SUSANNA MASSEY 



G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 

NEW YORK LONDON 

27 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET 24 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND 

1895 




7^ ^"34^7 



Copyright, 1895 

BY 

SUSANNA MASSEY 



Ube ftnicfierbocficr lprc00, 1t)ew ]t?orfi 



DEDICATION. 



O SPIRIT-EYES kindle once more in love ! 

O spirit-fingers clasp mine close again, 
Thou Presence, once my joy all joys above ! 

Be with me now, as then ! 

Mother ! to thee this book I dedicate, 

And all of good which springs from life of mine, 

Unto thy blessed Memory I consecrate ; 
For all my best is thine ! 

And if for me such perfect bliss there be, 

That one day heart to heart we twain shall stand, 

May I thy pure eyes meet in purity, 
And touch thy dear, dear hand ! 



PREFACE. 

If it be true that " Fools rush in where Angels fear to 
tread," then we luckless rhymsters in these days should 
beware how we rush into print. 

However, these verses, written from time to time in 
many a wandering by sea and land, are now offered 
simply as a tribute to the memory of one, to whose 
sweet influence is due whatever merit they may pos- 
ses, and in the humble hope that, like her, they may 
bring some sunshine into sunless hearts. 

Thanks are due to the Century and Lippincotfs maga- 
zines, for permission to reprint several of these pieces 
that have already appeared in the columns under their 
control. 

SUSANNA MASSEY. 

PmLADELPHiA, January^ ^Sg^* 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Go, Little Book xi 

God's Parable 3 

Groping 21 

Across the Dunes . 24 

Two Old Courtiers 26 

Even So ! 27 

PouRQUoi ?.......... 29 

I Sought for Love 31 

The Dimple in her Cheek 33 

*' And Nothing is, But What is Not." ... 34 

The Wake of the Year 36 

One Night . - 38 

A Phase 40 

The Way to Arcadie 42 

Footsteps on the Stair ! 44 

Love's Lullaby 46 

vii 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Truant Hairpin 48 

The Rise of the River 50 

The Seat of the King 54 

Burton Grange 57 

The Adrian Aphrodite « 59 

Life-Comrades 62 

Beside the Running Stream 64 

The King is at Versailles 68 

The Phantom of the Fjord 72 

The White Horses 77 

In a Church 79 

The Wedding of the Beautiful Sophie . . .83 

** Adieu! Cher Pays de France" 93 

The Death of a Heart 95 

A Moonlight Thought 96 

SuLEiKA El-Balbul TO Hassan-Al-Raschid ... 97 

That Other Girl 99 

Song of the Pocketbook loi 

Song of the Cup 102 

Song of the Guard 103 

*'In the Shadow" 105 

My Lady Walks in Pleasant Ways .... 107 

The Leaf and the Man 109 

Friendship; a Toast iii 



CONTENTS. IX 
SONNETS. 

PAGE 

Whither? . .115 

" Then— Face to Face" 116 

The Rose of Love 117 

The Unknown Seed . 118 

** Where Love hath Been" 119 

The Heart's Desire 120 

Voices from Beyond 121 

The Feet of Joy 122 

In Memoriam M. B 123 

An Aspiration 124 

The Choice of Buddha 125 

The Rival of the Roses 126 

The Statue of Diderot 127 

Maintenon 128 

The World-Enchantress 129 

'* Thunder of Waters " . 130 

SONGS WRITTEN TO BE SET TO MUSIC. 

Song of the Spanish Sailor 133 

Twilight Song 135 

** Farewell! ah» Who did Breathe that Word" . 137 

Where Hangs a Rose 138 

L'EcHO du Cceur ! 140 

**PuT your Swate Foot to the Fore" . . . 142 



Go, little book, like leaf upon the stream, 
Thou needs must float on as the ripples run, 

To where the ocean's far faint starry beam 
Out-broadens to the sun. 

Perchance, caught in some branch or tangled nook. 
Thou ne'er shalt win that far-off shining main. 

Yet if one heart hath found thee, little book, 
Thou hast not lived in vain ; 

If thou hast brought a smile to lips stern set, 
Or whispered hope above the Grave of Grief, 

Or dried the tears in eyes thro' vigils wet. 
Or made long waiting, brief ! 

We that have loved thee, fain would wish thee well, 
A peaceful journey, and of love some meed. 

Yet how a Pilgrim fares — ah, who can tell ? 
Go, little book — God speed ! 



GOD'S PARABLE. 



>■ 



GOD'S PARABLE. 

Part First. 

On Arno's breast the sun with glowing face 
And robes of trailing splendor sinks. The reeds 
Sway ripple-rocked, and all the balmy air 
Is heavy with rich spicy odors, wrung 
From drooping hand of day. Afar from whence 
The faint pink peaks of mountains shyly blush, 
Steal the soft-chiming sheep bells. Light winds play 
Through oaten pipes invisible, as 't were 
Some Dryad piped to Pan. Wave upon wave, 
Clearer, longer, higher, until the last 
Long, melting cadence through a casement stole, 
Where sat an artist with his head bent low. 
Lost in sad musings. By his side upreared, 
A picture vast and of majestic theme, 

3 



4 GOD'S PARABLE. 

Our Lord's last Supper with the Sorrowing Twelve, 
The moment, that wherein the False one dipped 
His sop within the dish, and with clear gaze. 
And steadfast, asked Him " Master, is it I ? *' 
Fair was the picture as is Art herself. 
And fashioned by a cunning marvellous, 
In tints that blent their subtlest essences 
Feeding the sense thro' rapture of the soul. 
Each gem of color finished was, save one. 
Whose place the bare clean canvas kept apart 
As sacred to the Christ face, centre Jewel, 
And crown of this rich setting. Hitherto 
By day and night, he strove to sketch that Face 
In moments snatched from sleep and constant toil 
(No soft silken courtier to Art was he 
Squandering her wealth for pretty compliments) 
But here his skilful hand had failed to trace 
The Face limned on his heart and brain. He had 
Flung himself down in fanes, upon whose walls 
Were richest trophies of religious Art 
Wrung from the heart and soul, nay life and death 



GOD'S PARABLE. 

Of the world-masters who had given all. 
Yet even here, something he felt, there was 
Lacking that Face divine ? Something that he 
Bore burning in his breast, and fain would show, 
To men incredulous ! 



Again he plunged to foulest depths, where life 
And death fought fiercely thro' the day and night, — 
Hung over death-beds, counting each faint breath 
That shook the heart and moved the quivering lid ; 
Whilst the weak hand let drop the golden thread — 
Oh ! then would not some majesty divine 
Invest the spirit with a touch that blent 
Suffering overcome, and love and peace and faith 
Prophetic of fruition, a faint glimpse 
Of what that Face should be ? In vain, in vain ! 
Impatiently the artist sighed. He rose 
And leaned far out the casement, drinking deep 
Draughts of rich air that fired his pulse like wine. 
He heard the river singing to the reeds. 



6 GOD'S PARABLE. 

And songs of bees that kissed the amorous lips 
Of wind-blown buds to swooning ecstasy, 
And clung and clung like lovers loath to part. 
How beautiful the world — and God how good ! 
He would not let him fail — no ! no ! not now, 
Now at the very last — He must not fail ! 
He flung himself upon his knees, his hand 
Clenched tensely — and his straining eyes upturned 
Unto the distant hills — " Whence comes our help,'* 
He cried — " O God — be kind — be pitiful ! 
And Thou whom I would fain find for the world. 
Show me thy Face ! for vainly do I seek ! " 
He bows his head yet lower on his hands. 
Hark ! what is that ? A presence at the door — 
A stirring of the curtains ! with the sound 
Leaps up a wild hope at his heart that Christ, 
Compassionating his despair, had come 
Once more to earth — to him unworthy shows 
That Face as once its radiance filled the world ! 
Why not ? Such things had been before — e*en here — 
Here in this city — had he read, how God 



GOnS PARABLE, 7 

Had helped men sore bestead. Quickly he turned, 

With lip sucked under by the quivering breath, 

And yearning eyes that eager pierced the gloom. 

Upon the threshold stood a little child — 

No Christ-Face this — a beggar all in rags, 

With tangled hair and grimy hands and face, 

Down which the tears had cleaner channels washed. 

^' Begone, I Ve naught ! " Franchini said. He spoke 

More roughly than his wont, for that thus soon 

He saw the fairy bubble of his hopes 

Suffer such quick collapse. " I do not come 

" For money, Signor," said the boy, " I come 

" To find the artist, Sor Franchini, he, 

" They told me in the streets, lived here." — 

He paused, and shrank more deeply in the folds 

The curtains made about the door — his feet 

Twining themselves together, and his eyes 

Raised timidly, thro' tears that still flowed fast. 

" Well, so he does, I 'm he," Franchini said, 

" What is your message for me ! I 'm in haste, 

" And have much work to do. Come, boy, speak out." 



8 GOD'S PARABLE. 

*' My father sent me, Signer," sobbed the boy, 
'* He said — go find Franchini — ask for him — 
" Cecco Franchini, grown an artist now, 
" And famous. Ask of all you meet where he 
" Lives now. O Signor ! I have come so far 
** I thought I never should find him — that one 
" My father wanted — and I am so tired.'* 
His childish voice died in a plaintive sob. 
And to the curtains clung the little hands. 
" My poor child," cried Franchini. Softly now 
As mother with her babe, he laid the boy 
Upon the rugs, and bade him rest, the while 
He told his message. " What *s your name ? 
" And who your father is who sends for me ? " 
" I 'm Luigi, Signor — Barto Stozzi's son, 
" And he is ill ? so ill, Signor, we fear 
" He dies — O padre mio ! — dies ! — I pray 
" To all the saints, but they are dumb — for he 
" Grows weaker, and to-day he called to me 
" And said, * Luigello mio ! thou art brave 
" And I can trust thee ! go and seek for one 



GOD'S PARABLE. 9 

" Cecco Franchini — beg him for the sake 

" Of our old love, and for the sake of Art — 

" That Art we both once worshipped tenderly, 

** To come and close my eyes and take from me, 

" My love undying ! O Signor, come ! come ! 

" Oh, thou wilt come ? My father said — * Come not 

" Without him/ " Franchini stood and heard not, 

Memory's waves had plucked his troubled soul 

To depths agleam with long-forgotten gems, 

And here his spirit wandered tranced, ensnared. 

Whilst voices of the Past like Siren's songs 

Swelled in his ear, and by his side a shade 

A Spirit like his own, went ceaselessly. 

" O Signor, come ! — we lose time — come ! " The boy 

crept, 
Close to Franchini's feet, and softly plucked 
His nerveless hand. The waves receding, cast 
His soul upon the strand 'mid living men — 
He saw the weeping boy, the dark'ning room 
And there piercing the dark like pointed flame 
His All — his child^ for which he toiled and slaved. 



10 GOD'S PARABLE. 

His child ! — offspring of that high day, when he 

And Art forevermore were wed. What ! now 

Leave it when but these fleeting hours were left 

To mould the chiefest charm ? No ! no ! 't was more 

Than human heart could sacrifice. " Not now, 

" I cannot come," he cried, and pushed away 

Luigi's hand. ^^ Take this," (he pressed some coins 

Within his palm) " buy what thy father needs. 

** Tell him that Cecco sends his love, and comes 

" To-morrow surely. For to-night, a work — 

*^ A work that shall enrich the world, must claim 

" My every moment. Go ! farewell ! my love, 

" My love goes with thee, and to-morrow I 

" Will surely come." He turned away, and sat 

Before the picture, heeded not the sigh 

That trembled on the air, nor yet the faint 

Far echo of small, bare, reluctant feet 

Down the stone stair ; but lit each waxen light. 

And curtains drew to shut out all the world — 

And be alone with Art ! That Face ! that Face ! — 

Swiftly he seized the block and pencil — now, 



GOD'S PARABLE. II 

Surely, success would come. But as he drew, 

Naught grew beneath his touch but one young face. 

Yes — Barto Stozzi's face as once it was 

In the old days — and Barto stood himself 

Before him^ — gay with hope untried, and fresh 

With springtide confidence, as when they fared 

One day together from their village home, 

To wrest the prize from Fame. A dreamy face, 

For Barto's soul was an ^^Eolian harp, 

Thrilled ever through by unwrit harmonies ; 

To him, the chattering brook, the lisping leaves. 

Soft summer airs, and winter's rudest roar. 

The faintest cloud-fleck on the blue, the vast 

Imperial storm-wrack, lightning-gemmed, and crowned 

By brilliant flashes, all were but the stops 

Whereon strange melodies did form themselves. 

Yes ! Barto's face ! Whence came it now ? A frown 

Darkened Franchini's brow, he dropped the block. 

Took up a fresh one, and began anew. 

Strange ! strange ! Do what he will, again that face ! 

Yet not the same — the dark eyes fiercer glow, 



12 GOD'S PARABLE, 

Sunk in their sockets, and the cheeks have lost 

Their roundness, and the flexile lips their curve. 

Still Bartons face as he had loved it, when 

They two together lived beneath the stars 

High in their little attic near the sky, 

Lived beggarwise, yet feasted like to kings ! 

Oft went they supperless that they might see 

Some opera newly-set, or concert hear, or stroll 

Thro* exhibition of rare paintings. Oh ! 

Those mad, merry, careless, happy days ! 

When Barto was the maddest of them all. 

His laugh the freshest, as he sat and played — 

(O God ! he played the soul from out one*s breast)- 

Until the people paused to hear, and all 

The little children in the streets sat still. 

And silent from their play ! Franchini smiled. 

And drew a long, soft breath. His absent eyes 

Saw not the Present, as his fingers loosed 

Their hold upon the block, that noisily 

Fell to the floor. Aroused, he threw the chalk 

Far from him, with a cry : " Am I bewitched ? 



GOD'S PARABLE. 1 3 

" Tush — -that boy's story — I am weak — that *s all ! 
** It has unnerved me quite." He rose and walked 
Some paces through the room. 



In calmer mind 
At last he sat once more. Persistently 
That face returned ! but, oh, how changed it was ! 
Despair and Poverty, and Hope long dead — 
Stared at him from those sad, reproachful eyes ! 
Those hollow cheeks, and haggard lips, whereon 
Genius had set its bow of promise ! All 
Lost, shattered, broken, now ! Defeat and Death, — 
Defeat far worse than Death, was in that face ! 
Franchini sank back trembling, and a mist 
Floated before him ; yet it could not hide 
That mournful face, and eyes that called to him — 
Imploringly. As in a dream, he rose — 
As in a dream, walked slowly to the door. 
" Barto, I come," he murmured low, and passed 
Silently out, under the silent stars. 



14 GOD'S PARABLE. 

Part Second. 
Was it for minutes, hours, days, weeks, years. 
Or cycles vast ? Franchini never knew 
How long he wandered through the streets, nor how 
He found the hole where Barto Stozzi crept 
To lay his weary head, and die unknown. 
But when the trance which held his senses broke, 
He found himself in a low, squalid shed. 
Kneeling beside a heap of straw, wherefrom 
Gazed up at him the face his hand had traced 
Unwilling on the block. The very same, — 
The heavy eyes, and pale, thin, parted lips. 
Stirred by the gasping breath ; the tossing hair, 
And sunken cheeks ! Franchini could not speak, 
A dull, dumb agony crushed down his heart. 
But on that weak hand straying, laid his own. 
" 'T is thou,*' the pale lips move, " 't is thou, I know ; 
Thy touch — oh, Cecco mio ! But they said 
* He will not come ' — only I knew he would. 
For when did Cecco ever say me nay 
Or hurt a friend ? 'T is false, for thou art here ! " 



GOD'S PARABLE, 1 5 

The voice died suddenly. Then woke at last 
Franchini's perfect consciousness ; he flung 
Himself above the silent form, and cried 
" Forgive ! Forgive ! dear Barto ! — they spake true ! — 
" I said I could not come — important work — 
" Important work ! — O God ! and thou, thus ! thus ! 
" In such great need of me ! O vain ! O Fool ! 
" But now that God hath led me — even me 
" Wrapped up in my besotted selfishness, 
" It is a sign that nevermore shall thou 
''And I be parted ! Barto ! Brother ! speak ! '' 
Far — far beyond reach of his voice, unchained, 
Roved Barto's spirit — the fast dimming eyes 
Flashed wide, and bright. Upon his cheeks there crept 
A trixy flush of health, the quivering voice 
Rolled fresh and strong. " How long thou 'st been to- 
night 
" My Cecco ! Here have I waited hours, 
" To-night, too, of all others, when I have 
" Such great news for thee ! Oh, how mad, 
" How wild with joy I feel ! Throw up the blind. 



l6 GOD'S PARABLE. 

" More air ! O Cecco, now could I compose 

" A symphony should crash with all the spheres 

" In unison ! My pulses throb to music. 

" Thou dost stare ! — dost think me mad indeed ? 

" Small wonder, for thou hast not seen her — felt 

" The influence of her beauty — never breathed 

*' Scent of her hair, nor read in those sweet eyes 

" Where dwells her soul, like Naiad pure and white ! 

" But thou shalt see her. Oft of thee we talk, 

" Beatta — is it not a pretty name ? 

" (But she is prettier than the prettiest name !) 

" She wants to be thy sister. We have planned 

" It all, and how thy chair — thine own, none else 

" Shall use it ever — on our hearth shall stand, 

" And our home shall be thine. Why dost thou stare 

" So strangely ? dearest friend, wilt thou not share 

" This greatest joy as thou hast shared aught else ? 

** No smile — no word — thou turn'st away ! — 

" I — Cecco — hear me — for I swear that Art 

" Is still the mistress of my soul, as She 

" Is mistress of my heart, and Queen of both. 



GOD'S PARABLE. I7 

" Nay ! hear me ! Cecco ! — what ! thou wilt not see 

" Her ? Then by all the gods we part, I say 

" Farewell ! Thy hand — one word — not one, not one — 

" And after all these years ! O ! God 

" How cruel ! How cruel ! " " Hush — hush '' Franchini 

cried, 

And put his hand upon those babbling lips 

Whose hurt went deeper than sharp shafts, that draw 

The life-blood after them. " Oh, I was mad 

^* Myself, with grief and rage ! and jealous too. 

" That now a woman should betwixt us come, 

" Marring our close companionship, and thou 

^^ Thou wast too proud to speak, and mad*st no sign, 

" In all these weary years. But Barto now 

" We will wipe out the page, and write our lives anew.*' 

Unheeding aught, that rich strong voice flows on. 

Only in accents softer, dreamier. " Oh ! 

" We were happy then, my Beatta ! Like two birds 

" Building their nests within heaven's portals ! Naught 

" Of sorrow touched us save the bitter loss, 

" Of him I loved, — but I had thee, and then 
2 



1 8 GOD'S PARABLE. 

" Luigi came. Want followed swift, and cares 

" And sickness. Often we knew not from whence, 

** Would come our food and raiment. Yet did Love 

" Feed our poor souls, and warm our shivering limbs. 

" Until that day of Chaos when thou too 

" Did'st leave me ! Oh, my heart ! my heart. Then 

snapped 
" My souFs chords utterly ! a broken thing 
" It floated on the stream, and cared not. Hark ! 
" Listen ! — Hush ! The music ! oh, what strains 
" Flood all my being ! " Round his lips a smile 
Grew, and his eyelids fell. One breath, and then. 
The choir celestial took the fallen harp 
And rounded all Life's broken harmonies. 
Franchini bent, and kissed the lips, and closed 
The eyes ; took in his arms the sobbing boy, and went 
Homewards again beneath the silent stars. 
Within the studio, the faint-burning lights 
Threw weird dim shadows ; otherwise all was 
As he had left it. With caressing hand 
And gentle voice he soothed the frightened boy 



GOD'S PARABLE, I9 

To sleep on his small couch. And then 

Turned towards the picture. Like a man he was 

Moved by unseen, impelling force. He took 

His block and pencil — on ! and on ! and on ! 

With feverish stroke and lips stern-set and eyes 

That looked within. He paused not — on, and on ! 

Whilst night unwrapped her mantle from the earth. 

And the gold-fleeced stars went — flock on flock. 

Chased by their rosy shepherdess, unto 

Their cloud-pent folds — till on the brink of heaven 

Stood fresh-eyed Dawn, a finger on her lips. 

Her feet poised lightly, eager to be gone. 

Like dancing-girl, before the advancing Sun ! 

At last ! at last ! Amid the melting lights 

Of Night and Day, it rose, it rose — that Face 

Grew in majestic beauty 'neath his touch ! 

The Face which through these weary days, had lived 

Within his mind and heart ! It rose, and cast 

The influence of its Presence everywhere. 

Reeling, Franchini staggered to his feet, 

And groped his blind way to the casement, where 



20 GOD'S PARABLE. 

He last had cast himself despairingly, 

And laid his head upon the sill, where poured 

The light in streams of liquid fire. And here 

They found him, when they came to learn wherefore 

The master tarried. Came, but wondering stayed 

To gaze upon that Face, whilst eyes ran tears. 

And knees bent humbly. Came, until the stair. 

Grew noisy with upclimbing feet, and all 

The narrow room was filled with throbbing life. 

Here still they found him, when they came to crown 

Him Master of that Age ; and of all Time ! 

One hand upon the wondering Luigi's head ! 

Franchini raised his eyes unto the East, 

No thanks he spake, for still his soul was wrapt 

In that Great Parable God spake to him. 



GROPING. 

Silent I sit and alone, about me bright bubbles of 
laughter 

Break into rills, and float away into soft silence after. 

Wine glasses ring and jests like barbs from the courser 
are flying, — 

Everywhere sweet flowers hang — sweeter and fairer in 
dying. 

Song overflows on gay lips, like fountain to sunshine up- 
springing ; 

Well do I know the refrain, yet my voice will not join in 
the singing ! 

Radiant lights hide the night and curtains shut out the 
black spaces ; 

Yet all within me is night, and blackness my being em- 
braces. 

21 



22 GROPING. 

What is this weight like a hand, that checks all the joy- 
springs within me ? 

Why cannot I, too, arise, and feel all the wild gladness 
win me ? 

Often before have I been the gayest, the maddest, among 
them, 

The words of this song, too, how oft in careless glee have 
I sung them ! 

Now nothing seems to be real — yesterday, nor to-day, 
nor to-morrow, 

Only this blackness about me, and longing, and infinite 
sorrow. 

Is this the shadow of Death, on his wings sweeping down 
to enfold me ; 

Barring from me evermore, life, and the friends that be- 
hold me. 

Is it a warning that soon the illumined hand shall be 
tracing. 

Clear on my spirit's walls, a shame that is past all erasing ? 

Is it a cry from the souls, that out in the darkness are 
calling ; — 



GROPING. 23 

There where the curtain lies close, they fall, and we see 

not their falling ? 
I know not, for knowledge no more has a place in my 

brain's maddened reeling, 



Silent I sit, and alone, and only this blackness is i^^^///?^ / 



ACROSS THE DUNES. 

Across the dunes, 
The white sand shifteth to and fro, — 
The sun's fierce splendor burneth low 

On summer afternoons : 
And following close, the gentle moon's 
Faint sickle hangs above the plain. 
Studded with stars. A towering train 
Of white clouds rearing sails of snow, 
Like phantom ships, their shadows throw 
Across the dunes. 

Across the dunes, 
The storm-sand swirleth to and fro 
Up to the sullen clouds, whose brow 
Flings lowering shade upon the moon's 
Pale opalescense. The surge croons 

24 



ACROSS THE DUNES, 2$ 

A dirge for souls that surely sleep, 
Beneath the billows restless sweep. 
Faint voices mingle with the flow — 
Whilst shadowy forms flit to and fro 
Across the dunes. 

Across the dunes, 
Our Life-Sand drifteth to and fro : 
In mist strange figures come and go 
From morn through afternoon's 
Decreasing light. All for some boon's 
Sake searching. Some there be that thrive, 
And pass on jubilant : others alive 
Shall never leave the mist, but sad and slow 
In bootless quest flit ever to and fro 

Across the dunes. 



TWO OLD COURTIERS. 

Spring is come and oh, my heart, 
How shall we greet her, you and I ? 
How make us meet for her laughing eye ? 

And like true courtiers play our part ? 

Youth have we not, with its quenchless flame, 
Yet methinks thou and I may trace 
Some afterglow in each other's face. 

And in loyal love we are both the same. 

Buds of promise we have a few. 
Backward hanging like many such, 
Gather them for the goddess, her touch 

Shall spread their petals and strength renew. 

Come, then, old comrade, bravely stand 
Here in her Majesty's path. Perchance, 
Though our feet cannot join the flying dance, 

We may feel the clasp of her glowing hand. 
26 



EVEN SO ! 

So short a time *twixt then and now 
So short a time, that still I feel 
My brain in anguish throb and reel — 

The sweat-drops chill my brow. 

So short a time 'twixt now and then ; 

Death came and took all that I had ! 

And life can ne'er be sweet nor glad 
Nor fair nor bright again ! 

So short a time 'twixt that and this ; 
The blackness of the unknown sea 
Hath hid away my love from me, — 

And ended all our bliss ! 

So long a time 'twixt that and this ! 
The cup is empty, — what remains ? 
27 



28 EVEN SO. 

I 'd barter all these barren gains, 
To find that severed kiss ! 

How long a time 'twixt that and this ? 
But Death shall come to me once more, 
With cold, swift touch my lost restore ; 

Oh, if that hour were this ! 



POURQUOI ? 

CuPiDON fils dit un jour 

A sa mere, 
" Ma vue dont-t'elle de malheur 

" Et de misere ? 
" Quand je vois circuler les gens 

" Dans la rue, 
" Et veux me meler la-dedans, 

" On se tue ; 
" On me guette d'un oeil severe — 

" Pourquoi ma mere ? " 

"Toi, Aveugle fait cette peur," 

Dit V^nuse ; 
" De ton art d'habile chasseur 

" Tu t' abuse." 
29 



30 POURQUOI? 

" Et bien, je n'en tirai plus " ; 

Rit le Dieu. 
Bientot des cris confus, 

Remplissent les cieux ! 
" Amour, reviens-a-nous ! " " Helas, ma mere 
** Comme on aime sa propre misere — 

** Pourquoi ma mere ? " 



I SOUGHT FOR LOVE. 

I SOUGHT for Love. " Surely with Pleasure he 
Must dwell," I said. The perfumed halls among 
I wandered mixing with the crowding throng 
Of revellers gay. Unseen full patiently 
I scanned their faces, some were bright and fair 
And others 'neath their smile, — how sad to see ! 
Boldly I challenged them : " Great Love," I cry 
" Dwells he with you ? '* Some deign not a reply, 
Whilst others pause, and with a mocking laugh 
Hold high the winecup for my lips to quaff 
Crying, " Love ? Love is here ! " Regretfully 
I turn once more, and sadly forth I fare. 
Great Love 's not there ! 

" Seek ye for Love ? " said Sorrow in mine ear 
" Come ye with me." Soon *mid the echoing halls 

31 



32 / SOUGHT FOR LOVE. 

Vibrant with Misery's moan, and Grief's shrill call 

AVe stood. And there close — close beside that seat of 

Fear 
Where Sorrow sat, crouched Love — a smile so sweet 
About his lips and in his tender eyes, 
That as he passed all stifled were the cries 
Of Misery, and e'en Grief forgot the gall — 
So sure a comfort did he bring them all ! 
Then down I fell — "Great mother ! " loud I cried, 
" Grant me that here I evermore abide ; 
" Grant me the tear — the groan — yea ! the soul-stabbing 

" spear, — 

" Great Love is here ! " 



THE DIMPLE IN HER CHEEK. 

Oh, dimple, dimple in her cheek, 

Thou first did'st stay my roving glance, 

Out-leaping, like to drawn lance, 
From that soft sheathe, her cheek. 

Her face is gentle, soft, and meek. 

But when thou peepest, wondrous sly ! — 

Thou giv'st new luster to her eye. 
Tint richer to her cheek. 

'T is strange, thou wee thing, nature's freak. 
That thou can'st change my life's whole aim. 

To one hot wish to join the game 
Thou play'st at hide-and-seek. 

To-night I '11 see her, — I will speak ! — 
Then, dimple, we '11 become fast friends ;. 

And she and you shall make amends. 
For all the woes you wreak ^ 
3 33 



" AND NOTHING IS, BUT WHAT IS NOT." 

Your looks are cold, dear friend, — is it so long 
Since you and I together sat us down. 

And held the Book of Life, and sang Love's song. 
And wore his triple-crown ? 

Is it so long ? Oh, no, it cannot be, 
For, as I gaze, it is but now, to-day, 

That our two souls, upleaping joyously, 
From earth soared far away ! 

Away ! Away ! Beyond our weak control. 
In the swift impulse of that mad refrain. 

Which seemed to tear the fibres of the soul, 
And Joy create of Pain ! 
• •••••• 

Yes — it was long ago ! The blinding, black. 
Cold, surging wave of memory, rolls between : 
34 



''AND NOTHING IS BUT WHAT IS NOT:' 35 

It lifts me up, and bears me slowly back, 
Unto those Isles serene. 

Oh, bitter waters ! Sweet to me, and strong, 
Engulf me utterly, a sad Elaine : — 

Glad thus to lie, hearing mine own death-song, 
Sweep in your wild refrain. 



THE WAKE OF THE YEAR. 

Who dances to-night at the Wake of the Year ? 

Youths and maids in a circle flying ! 

What care they for death or dying ? 
For sorrow that wasteth, or cares that blight ? 

Madly the leaping torches flare, 

Whilst from warm breast and tossing hair 
Roses the dead Year's chaplet make, 
Hiding his shroud 
Amid laughter loud ! 
Wild is the Wake of the Year to-night ! 

Who weeps to-night at the Wake of the Year ? 

Men and women in anguish lying ! 

Well wot they of death and dying — 
Of sorrow that wasteth, and cares that blight ! — 

Hopes gone out like the torches flare ! 

Loves withered soon, like the roses fair ! 
36 



THE WAKE OF THE YEAR. 37 

Scattering thickly the old Yearns bier ! 

Over his shroud 

With heads low bowed, 
Keep they the Wake of the Year to-night ! 

Who watches to-night at the Wake of the Year ? 
A world grown tired, weary and old, 
A world young, eager, ardent, and bold. 
Together they stand in the dimming light ! 
For one comes the dawning, strong and clear. 
But the old World sinks on the old Year's bier ! 
Around his shroud 
The mingling crowd. 
Watches the Wake of the Year to-night. 



ONE NIGHT. 

Angels of Air, spread your wings ! 

Through the earth tremble and soar ! 
Let my soul mount as it sings, 

" He comes ! my love " — and no more. 
Angels of Air spread your wings ! 

Shed richest odors, O, night ! 

Thy purest perfumes distil, 
Press to his lips, dewy light ! 

Kisses that linger and thrill ! 
Shed richest odors, O, night ! 

Shine, little stars, shine adown. 
Soon lies his head on my breast. 

Make of your brightest, a crown, 
Meet on his forehead to rest. 

Shine, little stars, shine adown ! 
38 



ONE NIGHT. 39 

Heart of my heart, he appears ! 

Teeming earth rest from thy strife ! 
Pause in your singing, ye spheres. 

Whilst my soul leaps into life, 
Heart of my heart, he appears ! 



A PHASE. 

Above us the starlight, about us the glow 

Of lamps in the garden where, women and men 

Sat drinking and jesting ; — a pause in the flow, 
And the young artist rose with his frail violin, 

In one hand, — the other, the uplifted bow 
Poised lightly, awaiting the sign to begin. 

Was it music he drew from those delicate strings ? 

Or were those our life-chords he touched as he willed ? 
Till they sobbed in thy voice, and my soul on its wings 

Soared upward to greet thine with keen yearning 
thrilled. 
Still in the deep silence the violin sings 

But my body unheeding sits soulless, and chilled. 

Oh, didst thou not feel it — wherever thou art ? 
No flash on thine eye like a faint falling beam ? 

40 



A PHASE, 41 

No throb making quicker the throb of thy heart? 

No warmth on thy lips, like a breath in a dream ? 
Oh, love, in that instant, though far, far apart 

Our souls met together across the wide stream ! 



THE WAY TO ARCADIE. 

Oh, wouldst thou, Sweeting, fain take wing 

To Arcadie, to Arcadie ? 
Whilst little birds do lilt and sing, 
And breezes blow faint whispering, 
Of posies' scent, and pipes that ring 
Far and away, in Arcadie ! 

Oh, wouldst thou truly thither rove. 

To Arcadie, to Arcadie ! 
The way lies not through bosky grove. 
Where leafy arch springs high above : 
None the hid pathway knows, save Love, 
To Arcadie, to Arcadie ! 

Let other seekers sigh, and start 

For Arcadie, for Arcadie ! 
42 



THE WA Y TO ARCADIE. 43 

Stay thou with me, I by Love's art, 
The pathway thither may impart — 
For here — straight lies it, — through my heart — 
To Arcadie, to Arcadie. 



FOOTSTEPS ON THE STAIR ! 

Once more within the dear old house I stand, 
And gaze far up the worn and winding stair, 

Adown which often, we, a merry band, 
Have crept with childish care ! 

What echoes here imprisoned now awake. 
Of weary feet, at rest these many days ! 

And stirring ones, that still their light marks make 
In paths of worldly ways ! 

How often on these stairs our mother went 
And came, and went again on errands sweet t 

I hear her now, her voice of glad content, 
And swift, untiring feet ! 

What sound, oh sister, now is in my ear? 
Of merry dancing, slippered feet, that frisk, 

44 



FOOTSTEPS ON- THE STAIR! 45 

With heels like castanets sharp clickings clear, 
And leaps of daring risk ? 

Hark ! the faint tap ! tap ! of a slender crutch ; 

It moves my heart afresh, that tender tune ! 
Oh ! helpless feet, we could not love too much ! 

Oh ! brother, lost too soon. 

And now the measured, thickly muffled tread 
Of grave-faced men ; a heavy form they bear ! 

It is my father's face ! In childish dread 
I weep upon the stair ! 



Alone of all I stand ! Yet not alone. 

Their welcome footsteps fill the chilly air ! 

Or are these but the echoes of mine own 
Slow step, adown the stair ? 



LOVE'S LULLABY. 



A SONG. 



Good-night ! good-night, *t is Love's delight 

To guard thy door from wanton sprite, 

To watch Time's creeping taper burn. 

And through its slow length sigh and yearn ! 

In thoughts about thy bed to press. 

Warming thy heart to joy's excess ; — 

Thus Love and I outwatch the night — 

Sleep thou in peace, — good-night, good-night ! 

Good-night ! good-night, 't is Love's delight 
To welcome in the dawn's pure light. 
When softly as a bird's white wing 
The first faint ray comes quivering. 
46 



LOVE'S LULLABY. 47 

For soon shalt thou, more fair, arise 

To gladden our o*erfamished eyes. 

Proud heralds are we of the light 

Which sleeps with thee — good-night — good-night ! 



THE TRUANT HAIRPIN. 

Hairpin lying on the bridge, 
Say whence comest thou ? 

From some fleecy coy curl laid 
On my lady's brow ? 

Prithee answer, saucy midge, 
Whither comest thou ? 

Or perchance from locks more rude. 
Hast thou slid unknown ? 

Whisper me, (I am no prude) 
Was she quite alone ? 

Or did eyes by love subdued 
Peep into her own ? 

Were they Titian locks — or brown ? 
Gold ? black ? silver ? gray ? 
48 



THE TRUANT HAIRPIN, 49 

Whence agadding through the town, 

Thou didst slip away — 
What did they within them crown — 

Good — or evil play ? 

Still art mute ! Thou saucy thing ! 

I will save thee not, 
Here caught in Life's ceaseless swing 

Thou shalt die forgot ! 
Hadst thou sighed " Her Name," a king 

Might have wished thy lot. 



THE RISE OF THE RIVER. 

On the far mountain height 
Paused the nymph in affright, 

Whilst madly pursuing, 
With rock-splitting laughter, 
The Faun thunders after. 

In boisterous wooing. 

Once backward she glances, 
Yet still he advances, 

She feels his hot breath ; 
Despairingly wailing, 
Her fair hair out-trailing, 

She leaps to her death. 

When lo ! each white arm. 
And her balmy breasts warm, 
And her long hair sun-kissed, 
50 



THE RISE OF THE RIVER. 5 1 

Softly waver and fade, 
Like a beam in the shade, 
Like a breath on the mist ! 

The Faun peeping over, 
Her fate to discover, 

Low crouches afraid : 
Naught he saw save a brook. 
Which its laughing way took 

Through crevice and glade. 

With glint and with gleam, 
Ripples onward the stream. 

Delighted to wander ; 
And in frolic wild, 
Like unchidden child. 

Its spirits to squander. 

Now under the grasses. 
It merrily passes, 

Bedewing the flowers ! 



52 THE RISE OF THE RIVER. 

Or leaping and tripping, 
Its cool shallows slipping 
In fairy-like showers. 

Allured by its ditty, 
'Mid flowers, a city 

About it upgrows ; 
Then swelled by just pride, 
Deeper courses its tide, 

A river it flows ! 

Its white breast bears proudly 
The jewels that loudly 

Its beauty proclaim, 
Light bridges o'er-span it. 
Soft, pure breezes fan it. 

And ** Arno " its name ! 

Flow onward and ever. 
Thou radiant river — 
Flow into each heart ! 



THE RISE OF THE RIVER. 53 

Lend sculpture thy gleaming, 
Shine, in poet's dreaming. 
The bright star thou art ! 

Past sadness receding 
New impetus speeding. 

Thy race to the sun, 
'Mid rolling of Ages 
And reding of Sages, 

Run, sweetest Nymph, run. 



THE SEAT OF THE KING. 

*' On this rude seat Philip Second loved to sit watching the build- 
ing of the Escurial." 

How cool and sweet, — the air blows freshly here 
After the darksome cloister. Brother, go — 

This seat and I are grown companions dear, 

And speak to each a tongue which each doth know, 

Good-night — and pray — pray for this burdened soul 

That standeth in such need of heaven^s dole ! 

My father's sepulchre — and mine likewise, 
Higher a span it stands since yesterday ; 

A prouder front it marks against the skies, 
Stone builds to stone as hour to hour the day ! 

Let me but live to see this finished, then 

I too will say my " Mitta est — Amen ! ** 

. 54 



THE SEAT OE THE KING. 55 

Have I done well ? thou knowest it, O Lord ! 

O Holy mother, thou, and all the saints ! 
My feet have in their bloody pathway trod. 

And for Thy cause alone this weak heart faints. 
To Thee and for Thee — in Thee Lord of Hosts 
This soul hath burned, and counted not the costs. 



Now shall the Cross uprear this princely Crown. 

. . . How chill the air ! — What shape affronts mine 
eyes ? 
I killed thee not — down, hateful spectre, down ! 

Go seek thy murderer in hell — he lies 
Who says I killed thee — if perchance I knew 
(Shriven I am long since !) the hand that slew ! 



My peace is fled — a fire burns in mine ears — 
The smoke of battle blinds my aching sight. 

My feet sink down in blistering floods of tears 
That seem to flow from hidden eyes of Night, 



56 THE SEAT OF THE KING. 

Ha ! — shrieks and groans ! Where once those fair walls 

stood 
I see a land whose torn breasts give blood ! 

The heretics burn slowly in the flame, 

Thou canst not chide Thy child — it was for Thee 
For Thee and for their everlasting shame 

Who mocked the power of Thy Holy See. 
Grant me a sign, O God, — a sign — but one 
That Thou shalt say to me at last " Well done/' 

What thing is this where clawing vultures scream ? 

A blackened corpse . . . O God ! — my face — my face ! 
Help ! brother — help ! So — so — I had a dream 

A frightful dream — *T is cold, come leave this place. 
My heart is sick — go swift the Abbott call. 
He will assure me — yet, if after ail . . . 



BURTON GRANGE. 

Written on leaving, to my dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. E. 

The wide-flung door whence springs the ruby flame 
Of Hospitality's unquenched torch, 
Your faces, smiling on me from the porch 

Amid the ivy's tender twining frame. 

The high-ceiled walls with dainty pictures set, 
The glint of silver in the cornered gloom, 
And everywhere the flowers clustered bloom, 

And easy chairs that do fine sloth beget. 

Jock's merry bark, and Patrick's tender eyes 
Uplifted in the fire's quivering glow. 
All this and more bides with me where I go. 

Unchanging ever 'neath the changing skies ! 

57 



58 BURTON GRANGE. 

Changes will come, but Friendship yet remains ! 
Though lands may part us and the rolling seas, 
Love's wings can sweep o'er greater lengths than these. 

No space enfolds the spirit, nor enchains. 

Dear BURTON GRANGE ! bright burn thy hearth's 
warm fire. 
Which welcome gives with peace and kindly cheer, 
And clearer burn through each succeeding year 

The love that trembles o'er my faltering lyre. 



THE ADRIAN APHRODITE. 

Drooping in languor, the land, 
Gleaming in sunset, the sea, 

Glorious the West jewel-spanned — 
Meet for the birth soon to be ! 

Slowly the white wonder grew — 
Lapped and caressed by the sea. 

Under her floated a shell 

Which lashing sea-dolphins drew. 
Round her sang nymphs on the swell, 

Sportive, the winds blossoms threw — 
Thus Aphrodite to men 

Came — for their blessing, — and rue ! 

Not so this latter Queen came. 
Queen of the Adrian Sea — 

Born amid sorrow and flame. 

And smoke of the Sacrifice, she ! 

Stronger and purer for these. 
Nobler and greater to be. 
59 



6o THE ADRIAN APHRODITE. 

Sardine and jasper her throne, 

Sapphire and diamond flashed free. 

Captive to love, overthrown, 
Under her feet the strong sea. 

Sharp was her kiss as the sting. 
And sweet as the honey of bee. 

Suitors she had at her knees, 

Gave her the best of each heart, 
Builded her temples of ease — 

Heaped high her spoils in the mart- 
Toiled for her, lived for her, died — 
If but her smile winged the dart. 

None would she grant of her love — 
None save the Sea would she wed — 

Fierce as her own heart above 
Willing he bowed and was led : 

Casting the gems of his kingdom 
Into a crown for her head. 



THE ADRIAN APHRODITE. ' 6 1 

Lost and betrayed in an hour, 

Bartered by lovers grown cold, 
Only the Sea to thy power 

Faithful remains as of old — 
Hiding thy shame and thy losses 

Under his mantle's bright fold. 

Look up, O golden-haired daughter ! 

Where thy proud galleys down-bore, 
Spurning the swift-churning w^ater, 

Unto the far-shining shore — 
Comes a soft whisper commanding : 

" Rise, Aphrodite, once more I 

" Not in thy olden-timed glory, 

" Fierceness of power and lust, 
" Write thou in new sweeter story 

" Womanly pity and trust ! 
" Loose the gemmed robe and the sandal — 

*^ Rise, white once more, from the dust ! '* 



LIFE-COMRADES. 

A HOODED figure walks and holds my hand — 
I cannot see the face, but well I know 
All joys of life do in its features glow, 

A bright unbroken band. 

I know the brow is pure, serene, and white, 

The eyes clear, and the cheeks of rounded mould. 
The curving lips a smile of rapture hold. 

As crystal holds the light. 

When Sorrow's mist breaks in a rain of tears, 
I feel the glowing fingers press on mine ; 
" Turn," breathes the figure, " ever am I thine. 

"Why ask more of the years ? " 

62 



LIFE- COMRA DES. 63 

Why ask, indeed ? I turn, — my tears are dried 
In sunshine once more, we two fare away, 
Good Comrades ever unto that Last Day, 

When heart and soul divide. 

When that shall be, come once more, peaceful Shade ! 

To those that knew thee not, show now thy face. 

** Was she unhappy — say ye ? Look and trace 
** What joys her portion made ! '' 



BESIDE THE RUNNING STREAM. 

I STAND beside the river as the evening sunlight falls, 

And lowly skimming o'er the tide a plaintive sea- 
mew calls, 

Till the singing of the river and the crying of the bird 

Thrill within my heart to rapture, and its lowest depths 
are stirred, 

As a strain of sweetest music never absent from the 
brain. 

Like the scent of flowers blowing thro' the drops of 
beating rain. 

Once more I rove beside thee in the happy summer, 
time, 

As up the sloping woodland heights our lagging foot- 
steps climb. 

Again I stand within the wood — I see the water's gleam, 

Once more I kiss thy little foot beside the running 
stream. 

64 



BESIDE THE RUNNING STREAM. 65 

How soft the moss to weary feet — how calm the air and 

still ! 
Silence, save where close by us sang the faint voice of 

the rill, 
And thy light bubbling laughter, as springing from my 

side, 
I see thee plunge thy swift-bared feet deep in the 

cooling tide ! 
I seize thy outstretched hand, I hear thy cries of shy 

delight. 
As o'er the stones thy slipping feet splash tremblingly 

and light. 
Thy clinging clutch upon my arm, when lizard 

darted by. 
Thy upturned winsome face, with glint of mischief in 

the eye. 

Then I am bending on one knee, like cavalier of old. 
And in my hand one tiny foot all dripping wet I hold. 
Rosy and white the dainty thing with blue veins traced 
within, 



66 BESIDE THE RUNNING STREAM, 

The dewy drops shine not more white upon the pearly 

skin ; 
I lift my glance to thine low-drooped — then lost in 

feverish dream 
I stoop and kiss thy little foot beside the running 

stream. 



I wake, — beside another stream, far in a glacial land. 
Where cataracts chill torrents pour down-foaming to the 

strand ; 
Where forests rise majestic — not the woods of long ago. 
For those wore crown of gracious oak, these ermine 

cloak of snow. 
The laughter of that summer day forevermore is still, 
. For thee the pleasant pasture-land, — for me the rugged 

hill! 
Sorrow we know and Joy, but ah ! both known and felt 

apart — 
Not as we were one instant — then, heart speaking unto 

heart ! 



BESIDE THE RUNNING STREAM. 6/ 

Yet whatsoe'er has come and gone between that time 

and this, 
I challenge thee to find us aught so perfect as the 

bliss, — 
So keenly stabbing as the pain, when in Love's hour 

supreme, 
I bent and kissed thy little foot beside the running 

stream. 



THE KING IS AT VERSAILLES. 

*' ON m'ECRIT que LE ROI s'AMUSE BEAUCOUP a VERSAILLES." 

The King is at Versailles, leap ! fountains, leap ! 
And catch in flashing flight, the prismed rays 
Of dewy gem and rainbow robes ablaze ; 

Richer than gold which broke lost Danae*s sleep. 
Press closer, leafy boughs of the bocage. 
That hearts in jousts of love may straight engage, 

Where vulgar eyes can nowise pry nor peep, 



The King is at Versailles ! 

The King is at Versailles ! what ho ! more light ! 
Set torch aswing : the Pictured Past of France 
Smiles down the long line of the winding dance, 

68 



THE KING IS AT VERSAILLES. 69 

Let our fool speak — for folly rules to-night — 

Low whispers float where outspread fans are swung, 
And nations fall or rise on woman's tongue ! 

What need of statesmen in such merry plight ! — 



The King is at Versailles ! 

The King is at Versailles ! Close, — bar the gates ! 
Shut out the foolish rabble's cry and drone, 
Let there be peace about the royal throne ; 

Away with dull and weary-eyed debates ; 

Hark ! how the jocund laughter of the Queen 
Rings out and slips the lofty bars between. 

To feed the hungry crowd that stares and waits — 



The King is at Versailles ! 

The King is at Versailles ! Stand back there — ho ! 
Come look at Louis and his wife ! They 're caught 
As neatly as trapped birds that e'er were brought 



70 THE KING IS AT VERSAILLES. 

Back to their cage. — They say they love us so — 

They 're safest then with us — kind friends, — good- 
night ! 
Madame may be consoled — the boy 's all right. — 

Place the guards, Camarades — bon ! so — off we go ! 

The King is at Versailles. 

The King is at Versailles ! No ! no ! no light, 
'T is not allowed ! Good citizens ye be. 
Ye say — then bow to Public Law's decree ; 

Else I '11 report ye both — aye, that to-night. 
Oh, I distrust ye ! Madame, please to spare 
That piece of paper you are fingering there ! 

Or I will force it from you in despite ! 

The King is at Versailles ! 

The King is at Versailles ! Fling down the door 
Come drag him hence — he 's no such royal thing, 
This Capet whom we used to call a King ! 



THE KING IS AT VERSAILLES. *J\ 

So grave then, Citoyenne ! you laughed before — 
You laughed so much ! and, Mistress, that sweet cake 
You offered us for bread — we 're here to take ! 

Tear down the pictures ! cake we '11 have — and more. 

The King is at Versailles ! 



THE PHANTOM OF THE FJORD. 

The ridges of the dark brown narrow isles, 
Our little boat slips noiselessly between ; 
Soft, blushing clouds rise *neath the water's sheen, 

Like Nixie's changeful smiles. 

Within this silvered tarn all colors lie, 

Crimson and purple clouds and golden-gray. 

And that faint changeling mist which seems to play 

'Twixt twilight and clear sky. 

Beyond the hills swings low the fiery sun — 
Like burning ball about to fall and break 
In glowing fragments, till upon our wake 

Its molten fires run. 

72 



THE PHANTOM OF THE FJORD, 73 

Slowly a black shape, curving crescent-wise, 
Rises above the dimmest water's edge, 
A ship's keel shoots out from the reedy sedge, 

And tapers to the skies. 



An ancient ship laid on with rusting targe, 

And awning stretched of gold on glittering pole, 
Above rich furs, whose ample folds unroll 

Close to the water's marge. 



Above the prow uptowered a giant form. 

Clad in rich fur and helmet — winged in gold, 
A face of courage, calm, with hair unrolled. 

And arm to rule a storm. 



Onward he swept, majestic and alone. 

Until his ship rocked 'neath ours, side by side ; 
Then spoke, in voice wherein a lofty pride 

Fought with a sadder tone : 



74 THE PHANTOM OF THE FJORD. 

" Well met, O stranger from the distant land ! 
" Unkenned in famous days when I was young, 
" No skald had seen it live — no Saga sung, 

^^ Nor Viking trod its strand. 



^* We then were makers of the world and men ! 

"We moulded, fought, and conquered — built a Past, 
" In which now lives your Present. From the Vast 

'' Of our own Ragnerok, ye spring again. 

" Ha ! is the thought unsavory ? Stranger, yield 
" Thy judgment here betwixt us, for I feel 
" My heart swell big within me, as my keel 

" Cuts deep this watery field. 



" Ye boast the glories of your Western sun, 
" That warms to Progress all beneath its smile, 
" And breeds soft comforts and rich fruits, the while 

" Your glowing hours run. 



THE PHANTOM OF THE FJORD. 75 

"You prize the zeal of your advancing mind, 
" Which makes of Nature's forces willing slaves 
'* For you their kings and princes, and thus saves 

" The pulse-throb of mankind. 



" Yet could ye be — if we had never been ? 

" If we had never toiled in field and flood ? 

" Mixed in your veins our stronger-beating blood. 
" We sowed, where now ye glean ! 

" And shall your end be glorious as was ours ? 
" Unconquered were we — dying heroes all — 
*' Allfather's maidens bore us to Wallhall, 

" Where Odin's Meethorn pours ! 

" Ye mock our ' Savage life ' — abjure the Gods ! 

" Yet vengeance comes ! The Norns do work and wait ! 

*' The hour draws near, finished their web of Fate — 
" Your own hand holds the rods ! " 



^6 THE PHANTOM OF THE FJORD. 

He ceased, and drew himself to fuller height. 
Softly about him like a curtain, rolled 
The mists of evening melting, fold on fold, 

And drew him from my sight. 



THE WHITE HORSES. 

Hip ! up and away ! 

The white horses of spray- 
Down the mountain come galloping free ! 

From their mouths fly the foam 

Of their snow-hidden home, 
In their nostrils the breath of the sea. 

In their neigh is the roar 

Of the chill torrent's pour, 
They are shod with the swift lightning's flash. 

No rein on the back 

Checks their far-coursing track, 
Nor know they the spur of the lash. 

No avalanche mars 
Their wild speed, nor bars 
77 



78 THE WHITE HORSES. 

Rough Stones the wild leaps of their pace ! 

On and headlong they rush, 

Over felled tree and bush, 
Down, down, in an unending race ! 

Hip ! up and away ! 

The white horses of spray 
Are gone — and we see them no more ! 

But the thunderous beat 

Of their hoofs, still repeat 
The mountains and rock-riven shore. 

Oft again in a dream 

Moves the white horses' gleam, 
We feel the cool wave of their breath ; 

And our heart shuddering high. 

As they rush madly by. 
Throbs and shakes to their hoof-beats beneath. 



IN A CHURCH. 

White and fair 

Lay her there, 
Where she stood in her bridal dress ; 

Clothed on now, 

From foot to brow. 
Only with her own loveliness. 

Peal on peal 

To make souls reel 
Greeted her, bride, that other day. 

The same bell 

Swings her farewell, 
And friends that smiled then bow to pray. 

Wherefore weep ! 
In tranced sleep, 
79 



8o IN A CHURCH. 

Happiest she thus soon to lie, 
Where no sorrow 
Her bliss may borrow, 

Nor she, grown weary, see Love die. 



THE WEDDING OF THE BEAUTIFUL 
SOPHIE. 



8i 



THE WEDDING OF THE BEAUTIFUL SOPHIE. 

A LYRIC DRAMA. 
Translated from the Chansons de Guzla. 

Note. — This curious Ballade — evidently of great antiquity — is 
given in the Chansons roughly in prose form, without any attempt 
at versification. In the present adaptation, the translator has endeav- 
ored to restore the swinging chant and other metrical peculiarities of 
the original verses as sung to the native Guzlas. The story is the old 
one of a rejected lover, who turns up rather mal-apropos at the wed- 
ding of the false lady with a richer suitor. After cursing Sophie the 
rejected lover then kills himself, and thus gaining supernatural power, 
returns and carries off the weeping bride to his tomb. 

persons of the drama. 

Sophie, a Morlac maiden, Bride of the Bey. 

Bey of Moina, Bridegroom of Sophie. 

Necephoris, rejected lover of Sophie. 

A Hermit. 

A Herald. 

Chorus of Nobles of Verachina. 

Chorus of Bridal-women. 

Chorus of the Tribe of the SvAti. 

83 



84 THE WEDDING OF THE BEAUTIFUL SOPHIE. 



CHORUS OF VERACHINIAN NOBLES. 

Bring forth the rearing steeds, nobles of Verachina ! 
Strap with burnished buckles, the housings rich and 
rare, 
Fresh silken waist-bands bind ye to bear the jewelled 
pistols : 
The silver-hilted yatagan — oh, polish it with care ! 
Mount, nobles of Verachina — mount, and ride away ! 
Be ye the first to greet the bride, upon her wedding-day ! 
Sophie the Beautiful goes forth — to wed Great Moina's 
Bey. 

II. 

NECEPHORIS. 

Rise up ! rise up ! my mother ! RISE ! mother of Ne- 
cephoris ! 
With streamers gay my charger deck, and braid his 
flowing mane ! 



THE WEDDING OF THE BEAUTIFUL SOPHIE. 85 

Set forth my black-fringed mantle, — the broideries rich 
fling o'er it, 
That I may be meet cavalier amid the bridal train. 
Fill full my silken purse, to fling the Guzla men that 

play 
Before false, smiling Sophie, upon her wedding-day ! — 
The fickle-hearted Sophie who weds with Moina's Bey. 

III. 

CHORUS OF WEDDING GUESTS. 

Come forth, come forth, O Sophie ! — of Morlac maids 
most beautiful ! 
Come warm our waiting hearts, as warms the drooping 
earth, the sun ! 

But first wreathe 'mid thy tresses, the bridal veil of 
crimson. 
That covering to thy beauty, no hand shall raise save 
one. 

Hark ! to the pistol shots that cry : ** This is thy wedding- 
day ! " 



86 THE WEDDING OF THE BEA UTIFUL SOPHIE. 

Hark ! to the ^^ Song of Agatha " ^ they on the Guzlas 

play ! 
More beautiful than she, art thou, who \yeds great 

Moina's Bey. 

IV. 

SOPHIE. 

Haste to my side, my brothers ! Embrace me now, my 
mother ! 

And thou my sister spring thou up beside my saddle's 
croop ! 

Hail warriors ! Doff your helmets, and low your iron- 
bound bosoms. 
That never bent in battle, before my charger stoop ! 

Ah ! — who is yonder man in black, and face of ashen 
gray? 

Necephoris 't is, who won my love, e*er I had met the 
Bey! 

An omen dire his presence here, upon my wedding-day ! 

^ "Song of Agatha." An ancient ballade always played at a 
Morlac wedding feast. 



THE WEDDING OF THE BEA UTIFUL SOPHIE. 8/ 

V. 

NECEPHORIS. 

Sound on the Guzlas her praises ! Sweeter than night- 
ingale sound them ; 
Wherefore droopeth the Bride ? — Why pales her face 
with affright ? 

Beauty melts before riches, like pearl in the wine-cup 
descending ; — 
Suffer thy despised serf to enjoy so gracious a sight ! 

Farewell ! My noble steed, to the valley of Shadows 
away ! 

A pistol-shot shall end the woes of this accursed day ; — 

But my soul shall rise to claim its own, e'er thou shalt 
wed the Bey ! 

VI. 
CHORUS OF BRIDAL-MAIDENS. 

Hail, Sophie ! 'mid the Svati, most blessed thou of 
maidens ! 
Leap from thy milk-white charger, — uncover not thy 
face ! 



88 THE WEDDING OF THE BE A UTIFUL SOPHIE. 

Scatter ripe nuts, that hereafter, sons may rise around 
thee ; — 
Haste to the silken cushions, and thy fond lord's em- 
brace. 

The sinking sun unveils the moon — his warning sign 
obey. 

Haste to the tent, where waits for thee imperial Moina's 
Bey ;- 

We, to the dance and festival, that crown this joyous 
day ! 



VII. 



THE HERMIT. 

My brothers, hark ! A pistol-shot rings clear in the 
valley of Shadows ! 
Is it some impious hand would kill the gentle fawns 
under my care ? ^ 

^ Hermits were supposed to tend the weaker animals — especially 
deer. 



THE WEDDING OF THE BE A UTIFUL SOPHIE. 89 

Ah, no ! *T IS a handsome youth, under the dark palms 

lying ! 
His charger roams free, and his black broidered robe 

floats on the pitying air. 
O woe ! O woe ! an omen dire for this auspicious day ! 
Necephoris 't is, who loved too well, the fair bride of the 

Bey ! 
Go bury him deep, my brothers, with all the speed ye 

may ! 

VIII. 

SOPHIE. 

And comest thou, my Lord, to meet thy handmaiden 
most honored ? 
(How cold his hand upon mine own — his fierce eyes 
stab my breast !) 
My Lord, my Lord, why drag me from thy tent's silken 
cushions ? 
(I shake with fear — my faltering limbs sink, but I find 
no rest !) 



90 THE WEDDING OF THE BE A UTIFUL SOPHIE. 

O help, my brothers ! mother, help ! Ye saint's to whom 
I pray ! 

Oh, succor bring ! Necephoris 't is who drags me far 
away ! 

His soul hath come to claim its own upon my wedding- 
day ! 



IX. 



THE BEY. 

Where tarriest thou, my beloved. My shy young dove, 

where tarriest ? 
Too timid art thou to flutter within these waiting 

arms ? 
Go, slaves ! to the banquet hasten, search for my love 

and bring her — 
Too long do I sit in my lonely tent, feasting my 

thoughts on her charms. 
Come, my rose, from thy blushes the bride-veil strip 

away. 



THE WEDDING OF THE BEAUTIFUL SOPHIE, 91 

Let all thy perfume fill the tent with sweet scents of the 

May. 
Come, my beloved, to the arms and heart of Moina's 

Bey ! 



THE HERALD OF THE FEAST. 

Let loose the bridled steeds, nobles of Verachina ! 
Come to the overflowing banquet — gather the nuts and 
the gold. 

Part not the tent's silken curtains — the Bey and his bride 
are together. 
Dance with the prettiest bridesmaid he who is hand- 
some and bold ! 

Strike ye the Guzlas, musicians ! sing, and your loudest 
play ! 

Scatter your flowers, ye maidens, to hail this joyous 
day ! — 

Sophie the young and beautiful hath wed great Moina's 
Bey! 



92 THE WEDDING OF THE BE A UTIFUL SOPHIE. 

XI. 

SOPHIE. 



\ 



Help ! my mother — my brothers ! ye saints to whom I am 
calling ! 
(Heavy his hand on my heart as a stone, my senses 
reel fast ! 

His eyes dart deathly flames into my bosom deep burn- 
ing !— 
His breath on my mouth strikes fierce, like fires from 
the furnace cast !) 

I sink — I fall — I die — O, wo ! my spirit dare not stay, — 

Into the tomb with him I go to keep my wedding-day ! 

Farewell — farewell ! — O life ! O love ! Farewell, un- 
happy Bey ! 



"ADIEU! CHER PAYS DE FRANCE/' 

Farewell, sweet land of France, farewell, farewell ! 
Close were thine arms about my frozen heart, 
Warming to quicker throb the pulses' start ; 
And thine the voice, soft as a chiming bell. 
Which bade me calmly view Life's crossed design. 
And take therein the place which once was mine. 

Farewell ! thy gentle skies as laughter bright, 
Thy sparkling river running to the sun, 
Where the green shores do seem to meet as one. 
So clear the mirror on thy bosom bright. 
Thy schools of learning and the keen delight 
Of storied treasure and grand jewel set 
Within the Louvre's high-flashing coronet. 

Doubtless thy mask oft hides the falling tear, 
Unshriven of some sins thou art, perchance, 

93 



94 ''ADIEU! CHER PAYS DE FRANCE:' 

Yet, ever prank't, as in some gay romance, 

Thou did'st enkindle me to pleasant cheer. 

And still did*st play the knight with quivering lance, 

As was thy wont in panoply to blaze 

E*er yet progression's sun rose on these later days. 

Farewell ! the mist creeps up the moon-swept sea 
And folds thee from my gaze ; yet swift between 
Rises the thought of thee, calm and serene. 
And ever through the wide void goes with me ; 
No mist can hide, no parting intervene ! 
Clear burns thy presence on my spirit's sight, — 
Good-night, dear land of France, good-night, good- 
night ! 



THE DEATH OF A HEART. 

Feet may dance, whilst hearts are breaking, 
Eyes may flash, when Hope is dead ! 

Lips may smile, the dimples waking. 
When mirth is ended, and joy is fled. 

Cheeks may flush, whilst chilly fingers 
Madly clutch each other to stead 

The quivering lip where the smile still lingers. 
The haughty poise of the aching head ! 

Laughter may come, clear, soft, and ringing, . 

Only the shadows of pallid night 
See the prone figure, whence upward winging, 

The dying heart slowly takes its flight. 



95 



A MOONLIGHT THOUGHT. 

I KNOW not when the hour shall be, 

Nor in what time shall come, 
For me the last lapse of the Sea — 

The end of Earth's swift hum. 

But should God say, "Ask now thy boon," 

This only would I crave. 
That such a night as this and moon. 

Should see my new-made grave. 

And I be laid, girt round by trees 
With gracious arms outspread, 

Guarding from evil fantasies. 
The deep sleep of the dead. 



96 



SULEIKA EL-BALBUL (late of Stamboul) TO 
HASSAN-AL-RASCHID (late of Ispahan). 

Oh, dost thou remember the Vale of Cashmere, 

Where every breeze mingles the jasmin and rose ? 
Where fast-falling fountains flash crystalline clear, 

And the purple-peaked mountain more distantly glows ? 
Oh, dost thou remember that soft night in June, 

When in our slight scallop we drifted at ease, 
Whilst the languorous strains of my zither's faint tune 

Hung in clinging caress on the breast of the breeze ? 

Oh, dost thou remember the bulbul's clear note. 

Which deep in the thicket rose rapturous and strong. 

As she trilled nigh to bursting her delicate throat 
In envious effort to rival my song ? 

And dost thou remember our walks o'er the meads 
That rapidly run to the river's brink blue, 
7 97 



98 SULEIKA EL^BALBUL TO HASSAN-AL-RASCHID. 

Where gay and unfettered like new-escaped steeds 
Our hair tossed to windward together we flew ? 

Oh, dost thou remember these ravished delights ? 

Gone are they forever — the boat idly swings 
At its moorings : and ever on still starry nights, 

Alone without rival, the nightingale sings ? 
But ah ! though our senses, thou Vale of Cashmere, 

May no longer behold thee — thy joys still are ours ! 
Ever fresh in our hearts. They are here — they are here, 

And to thee we still turn for our happiest hours ! 



THAT OTHER GIRL. 

What *s that ? A rose ? Oh, yes, long years ago 
She tossed it to my hand — that other girl ! 

The sunshine laughed above us, and below 
The water dashed its gleam of silver pearl 

Where we two stood together, years ago, 
I and that other girl ! 

Twelve years it was — we danced that summer through 
And fished for hearts with words of merry jest 

Never swam sun in such pure blaze of blue, 
Never was earth so fair for pleasure's quest ! 

And that day when the dewy rose she threw. 
Yes, of all days, that was the loveliest. 

The winter found us still together, we 

Drove, walked, and read — I and that other girl. 

99 



lOO THAT OTHER GIRL. 

Dante and Tasso — Goethe ; who but she 

Could wing a thought, swift as a fan's unfurl ? 

She was so clever — cleverer far — ah me ! 

How like to humming-top my poor brains whirl ! 

And yet — and yet — naught but this rose remains, 

And she is still only ** that other girl.'* 
Go ! Join the Past, which dead, like thou, contains 

The shrunken beauty of thy petal's curl. 
" Yes, dear, I 'm coming " ; God ! how that voice pains !- 

To-day it ought to be that other girl ! 



SONG OF THE POCKET-BOOK. 

Wear me, I pray thee, 

Close to thy heart. 
Part from all others — 

But ne'er from me part. 
For though I be empty, 

Yet that which I hold 
Is brighter than silver. 

More precious than gold ! 

Now read me this riddle. 
Is 't not passing strange ? 

Though holding change ever, 
Yet never I change. 



lOI 



SONG OF THE CUP. 

A SONG in the cup — for the cup 's in my song ! 
The cup for your lips in the clear morning light, 
When you rise with your nerves braced and keen for 
the fight, 

A cup for your lips then, a cup deep and strong. 

The Song for your heart in the still twilight glow. 
When all the gone years are but bubbles that gleam 
An instant, then vanish adown the dark stream 

This Song for your heart then, — its words we both 
know. 



102 



SONG OF THE GUARD. 

Perchance a watch may need a guard 

To keep the time in view, 
But never need of watch nor ward 

For tender hearts and true. 



Nay, they in unison do beat 
Still closely, each to each ; 

Though parted our reluctant feet, 
And vain the willing speech. 



What shall I crave for birthday boon 
For thee ? I scarcely know ! 

From earth up to the distant moon 
My longing wishes go. 
103 



I04 SONG OF THE GUARD. 

Seeking some rarest wish supreme, 
Some good unknown to men, 

Fairer than e'er was poet's dream. 
Nobler than mind may ken ! 

Something like unto mixed spices strong 
That should wrap thee forever and aye. 

Making thy life one sweet glad song 
Thy soul fresh as buds in May. 

All this in the little guard I twine, 
And a prayer that it may prove, 

A link evermore Hwixt thy heart and mine 
Where'er thy footsteps rove. 



" IN THE SHADOW/' 

The nurse is gone, and I am left alone. 

She thinks I sleep ! Ah, no, dear friends, — not yet 
The sleep has come, which makes but merest fret 

All other sleep ! So deep this is when won. 

Ah, I am weary, sick, sick unto death ; 

These smiles that poorly deck your pale-faced grief, 
This pain that stays and finds not a relief. 

This labored drawing of a wasting breath. 

The sunshine flickers up and down my wall ; 
Oh ! if it were a stream that in its tide 
Might bear me out, away through portals wide. 

No matter where — then would I chance it all. 

105 



Io6 ''IN TH£ shadow:* 

Christians ! why weep for me, and be thus stirred, 
That soon my soul up from this lump of clay 
Shall mount exultingly, away ! away ! 

Eying for freedom like unprisoned bird ? 

Why should ye weep ? If that your faith be true, 
Which speaks this flight sure passage to a bliss 
More deep, more raptured than aught else that is, 

Then none should be more jubilant than you. 

Ah, me ! The sunlight dies, the shadows creep 
Chilly about me, clasp me till I sink 
Into dark depths, where I no longer think, 

Nor know — but only yearn to sleep — to sleep ! 



MY LADY WALKS IN PLEASANT WAYS. 

My Lady walks in pleasant ways — 
She is not fair — my Lady says — 
But, ah ! her smile is rare to see 
So delicate, and fine and free ; 

It decks in cheer the poorest place 
By virtue of its brightening grace, 
My Lady walks in pleasant ways ! 

My Lady walks in pleasant ways, 
And all about her meekly sways 
By gracious power of her mood, 
So sure is she to find the good. 
So swift to aid, uplift, and soothe, 
And make the roughest paths seem smooth, 
My Lady walks in pleasant ways ! 
107 



I08 MY LADY WALKS IN PLEASANT WAYS. 

My Lady walks in pleasant ways ; 
Before her clear and level gaze 
All evil things do shrink away 
As reptiles flee the wholesome day ; 
Love rises on his knee to greet her 
And children crowing, run to meet her. 
" I am not fair/* my Lady says, 
Ah, sweet, most fair ! most fair always 
Thou walkest in thy pleasant ways ! 



THE LEAF AND THE MAN. 

(the leaf, loquitur). 

Sigh ! sigh ! Thou passer-by ! 
Thou shalt one day be as I, 
Lowly lying, as I lie — 
Sigh ! sigh ! 

Wail ! wail ! Thou winter gale ! 
Thou art strong and shalt prevail, 
To thee, man and leaf are frail, 
Wail ! wail ! 

Blow ! blow ! thou blinding snow 1 
Feed me to thy breasts' chill flow 
Man and leaf shall both lie so — 
Blow ! blow ! 
109 



I lO THE LEAF AND THE MAN. 

Fall ! fall ! ye frail ones fall ! 
This the end to one and all ! 
For me the earth, for you the pall, 
Fall ! fall ! 



(the man, loquitur). 

Rise ! rise ! rejoicing rise ! 
Soul set free from mortal ties, 
Let the leaf die where it lies, 
Rise ! rise ! 



FRIENDSHIP ; A TOAST. 

The feast is spread, the wine flows free ! 

And laugh and jest do both keep pace. 

We look beneath each other's face, 
Soul calls to soul in jollity 
A band of four in fealty. 

For words in this fleeting show to trace 
Something deeper, nobler ; space 
To fling our nets in the unknown sea. 
A toast, dear friends. Rise one and all. 

" May ever our hearts and souls be bound 
" Together in love. At the clarion call 

" Of Friendship be they forever found 
" Ready and eager to rise or fall. 

" But faithful still unto that sound 

*' Which death may not silence, nor fear enthral." 



¥ 



SONNETS. 



"3 



WHITHER ? 

I CRY — I cry ! I weary ask the sea, 
And on the throbbing pulses of the land 
Press eager fingers. Oh ! to understand 

The meaning of this life-girt mystery 

Which earth guards sphynx-wise from my soul and me ! 
In every cloud it lies, and fern soft-fanned. 
In swelling throat of bird, and billow, spanned 

By curving crest ! It sweeps in wind-rocked tree ! 

How touch the single thread, the slender clew 
To lead into the Labyrinth where flies 

The fateful shuttle passing through and through 
These threaded purposes of life, crosswise. 

Living shall this be mine ? or shall Death's dew 
With healing power, unseal my blinded eyes ? 



"5 



'' THEN— FACE TO FACE ! '* 

Death came unto a Soul, which cold and bare 
Low cowered shivering, being sore afraid. 
Death waited patiently, one hand outstayed, 

But yet the Soul ceased not from quivering there. 

Lost to all feeling save a deep despair. 

" Come," said the voice which is of all obeyed, 
" Delay no longer, nor be thus dismayed, 

" Yet if thou come not willingly — beware ! *' 

Then rose the Soul, still wrapt in ghostly fear, 
And weeping that of life this was the end ; 

Slowly the awful messenger drew near. 
Until the face did closer, closer bend ; 

When lo ! down-shining through a radiance clear, 
Smiled the fond eyes as of a dearest friend. 



ii6 



THE ROSE OF LOVE. 

Love struck me lightly with his perfumed wing, 

And I from dreaming woke. I could not see 

The God for splendor of his majesty, 
But fiery circles, flaming ring on ring 
About me whirled, each last one narrowing 

Unto a centre burning wondrously ! 

And in the blazing heart, swung carelessly 
A crimson bud, its curved leaves quivering. 
Fearless of flame, I dared Death for the rose, 

I felt its dewy touch upon my hair. 
And on my lips, and 'gainst my heart's ^fierce throes, 

— So sweet it was, I fain would keep it there ! 
Alas ! unrest is now my sole repose. 

And all my Joy, a thorn, that doth not spare ! 



"7 



[E UNKNOWN SEED. 

The angel walking in the narrow ways 

'Twixt Heaven and Hell, looked on me where I stood 
Alone within Life's Place, — my idle mood 

Marked by the lapse of my more idle days. 

" See thou this seed," the watcher softly says, 
^' Within my hand ? I know not if it good 
" Or bitter be, I found it 'neath the Rood — 

Wilt rear it — bearing both the blame and praise ? '* 

" Yes," said I slowly, whilst one hand upstole 
Where the seed fell like pricking point of flame. 

Idle no more my days — my shivering Soul 

Watches 'mid throbbings torn of Joy and Shame — 

Restless I cry, " Ah, what shall be the dole ? 
** 'T is mine to bear, be it of praise or blame." 



ii8 



" WHERE LOVE HATH BEEN/' 

Death stooped one day to Love, a little child, 
And lifted him, and laid him 'gainst his breast. 
Hoping to see the merry god oppressed, 

By the grim aspect of a nurse so wild. 

Naught said the boy, but still serenely smiled, 
Whilst on the sable robe his head did rest. 
As 't were the white down of his own smooth nest. 

His eyes upturning ever, tranquil, mild. 

" Child,*' cries Death hoarsely, ^' art thou not afraid ?" 
Love laughs aloud, " Nay, thou should'st be," he saith, 

Then on the flaming eyes his hands are laid. 

And warmed the chill lips by his glowing breath, 

*^ Lost are thy terrors now, thyself dismayed, 

" Where Love hath been, none fear to come, O Death." 



119 



n 



THE HEARTHS DESIRE. 

Who follows not some silver-threaded star 
Which points a path unto the heart's desire ? 
No other light we need, save its faint fire, 

Which when we nearest seem, shines pale afar ! 

We fall, we rise, — we heed not tear nor scar. 
Nor weary waste, nor depth of foulest mire : 
Our purpose set to aims that never tire. 

And fiery zeal, o'erleaping every bar. 

Who gains the goal ? Who sees this fair star set 
In splendor that on earth hath never been ? 

Few that are living shall this joy beget. 
Or see their heart's desire aglow therein. 

Only the dead, who die whilst striving yet, 

Oft touch in loss, the stake they fain would win. 



120 



VOICES FROM BEYOND. 

I LAY upon the borderland *twixt sleep 

And drowsy thought, dim as a wavering dream, 
All consciousness a far, faint, starry beam. 

Like glint of torch within a cavern deep. 

About me voices rose with windy sweep. 
Till all the pulses of the air did seem 
Aflame, and bubbling in a liquid stream, 

Pouring upon me in one gathered leap. 

They raised in me a power uncontrolled — 
These mystic voices rushing madly by : — 

My feet were set where wheeling planets rolled, 
My head upreared within the flaming sky. 

A god I was within my human mould. 
To trample Death, and all his might defy. 



121 



m 



THE FEET OF JOY. 



Sorrow marks many days In many lives 

More deep than grave placed round by carven stone 

Whereby we note Time's pilgrimage alone, 
And where — 'mid all else ruined — Grief survives ; 
Here hovers ever our faint heart, nor strives 

To break away from contemplation, grown 

A wanton luxury, which all unknown, 
Like fungus-growth, upon our weakness thrives. 

Joy's fluttering feet we mark not over much. 
Though to our side steals on the laughing boy ; 

So feather-light upon our brow his touch, 
So deft his hand to mend each broken toy ; 

Thankless, we stumble on in Sorrow's clutch, 
Whilst softly trip unheard the feet of Joy. 



X22 



1 



IN MEMORIAM. 

M. B. 

** I will be famous." 

— Marie Bashkirtseff. 

Frail flower of the frozen Tartar clime, 

Groping thy way through earth to purer space, 
Where the Immortals sit — nor shroud the face 

Though on them beats the Sun of Fame sublime ! 

Short was thy struggle through Life's cutting rime, 
This fiercer strife marred all thy tender grace. 

And broke the bud, e'er came its gracious prime. 

But in that hour when thy white leaves were shed 
Down at Death's feet, was won thy Soul's desire. 

Fame's splendor kindles all thy whiteness red. 

For thee peals proudly forth the Immortal's Choir : 

Whilst on the earth, where thy great Sorrow bled, 
The tear-sown seed bears fruit of living fire. 



123 



AN ASPIRATION. 

Peak piled on peak, like dim cathedral spires, 

Prick the light lace-work of the amber sky. 

On the green slopes weird, twisted shadows lie. 
Cast, dark and writhing, from the sun's fierce fires. 
Upward we strain our gaze, the soul aspires 

Unto those heights ! Oh, but for wings to fly, 
To mount and mount with zeal that never tires — 

To burst Earth's clod and live, though we should die. 

To reach the vast Beyond — ah, that Beyond, 
Which only once was bared to mortal eyes 

On Pisgah's mount ! To knit the unseen bond. 
That 'twixt the Infinite and Finite lies ! 

The pent soul struggles, and the heart grows fond, 
Whilst dimmer through our tears, the dim peaks rise. 



124 



THE CHOICE OF BUDDHA. 

A HINDOO LEGEND. 

Once our dear Lord in broodful silence strayed 
Amid the flower-strewn gardens of the world. 
The roses all their petals wide unfurled, 

The lilies slender throats more proudly swayed ; 

Eager each beauty strove to stand displayed. 

The Master smiled, but turned where clearly purled 
A little brook. There 'mid the grasses curled, 

Beneath His foot, a patient violet stayed. 

He stooped unto it, saying : " Fair those are, 
" But with thy fairness theirs may not compete, 

*^ And they are proud, yet thou art prouder far, 
" Sweeter than all their odors, thou art sweet ! 

** Yea, brighter than the radiant morning star 
" Shine patient lives, low hiding at my feet.'* 



125 



THE RIVAL OF THE ROSES. 

Once in the wave-girt garden of the world, 
All chastely white, the clustering roses were, 
Drooping embosomed on the amorous air. 

When lo ! one morn, 'mid golden hair unfurled. 

Stepped stately Eve upon the grass, which curled 
Round her feet tenderly, her bosom bare, 
Her limbs more white than all the roses there, — 

Herself, God's opal from His depths empearled. 

Then stirred the roses, all with envious shame. 
To see their beauty mocked by this young queen, 

These crimson glowed — those the consuming flame 
Faded to paler tint of hopeless spleen. 

And from that hour the roses bear the same 

Badge of Eve's power, where'er her face is seen. 



126 



I 



THE STATUE OF DIDEROT. 

So calm, and grave, and cold ! About his feet 

Life's eddies swirl with endless throb and fret. 

In hand of mighty mould, pen mightier yet. 
Seems writing o'er our heads a message sweet. 
High ! high above the noises of the street. 

Like darkling point in heaven's dim spaces set. 

To reach it were all earth aims to forget — 
Only to live, and love, and learn, as it were meet. 

Still pointest thou the way, thou mighty one, 
Gazing austerely on us dwarfs below ! 

A nation's pride upreared thee to the sun, 
A nation's caprice yet may overthrow. 

What carest thou ? Finished what is begun, — 
The arrow sped returns not to the bow ! 



127 



MAINTENON. 

A WOODED land, about which waters run, 
Guarding in olden time my Lady's ways 
From scrutiny of rude intruder's gaze. 

When seeking rest from worldly noise and sun, 

She hither came, to brood and muse alone. 

Resting her high heart from the Court's poor plays. 
The while her spirit yearned for nobler praise 

Of that fine web her tireless brain had spun. 

Broken the web — that glorious star is set. 
Which she from yonder tower saw arise : 

More purely now another star burns yet — 
Across a finer web the shuttle flies. 

Perchance her soul, freed from all earthly fret. 
Smiles down approval from the smiling skies. 



128 



THE WORLD-ENCHANTRESS. 

A PURE, clear radiance gilds the water's rim, 
And spreads in broader bands close to our side, 
Where on the ripples' curve we dip and slide. 

Our hearts like cups, full quivering to the brim. 

Dread to let spill one drop, and thus to skim 
E'en by so small a loss, our Joy's deep tide. 
All earthly things fall from us as we glide, 

With starry dreams our drooping eyes are dim. 

Oh, Venice — Lorelei — this thy charmed hour ! 

Locked in thine arms, enchanted deep we lie. 
Listing thy sweet voice thrill the golden shower 

Falling upon thee from the purple sky ! 
Naught stirs us save the witchery of thy power — 

In thee we live — or if thou will it — die ! 



129 



" THUNDER OF WATERS/' 

E 'er we behold thee, thy roar strikes our ear, 
In thundering accents of a Voice divine; 
Clouds may obscure thee, or the sun may shine. 

Yet art thou there ! We feel thee and we fear. 

With hearts a-tremble, eyes that see not clear. 
And feet that softly tread, as at some shrine. 
Do we approach thee, lose our breath in thine. 

Hang trembling in thy power, thou mighty seer. 

Vast, wondrous Formulator of Infinity ! 

Upon thy breast, our minds leap out in space. 
We see the One who was, is, and shall be. 

Unveil amid thy mists His awful Face, 
We hear Him speak, fit messenger in thee. 

Who wert, e*er yet thy floods to worlds gave place. 



130 



SONGS. 



WRITTEN TO BE SET TO MUSIC. 



131 



SONG OF THE SPANISH SAILOR. 

BARCAROLE. 

Oh]e:ho ! my fair love is the sea ! 

Blithe is she ! 
On her breast, do I rest, as we flee — 

Oheho ! Oheho ! 
Sharp is her kiss as the string, 
And sweet, as the honey of bee ! 
Oheho as together we wing, 

Oheho, Oheho, 



Refrain, 



In her breath lies dark death. 
What care I ? 
If together we die — 
My fair love and I ? 
133 



4 



134 SONG OF THE SPANISH SAILOR. 



Oheho ! a song for my love ! 

As we rove ! 
Fairer queen ne'er was seen than my dove, 

Oheho, Oheho. 
Boundless the sweep of her throne. 
Her crown is of bright stars above. 
Yet her heart beats close to mine own 

Oheho ! Oheho ! 

Refrain as before. 

In her breath, etc. 



TWILIGHT SONG. 

Sleep ! sleep ! good-night ! good-night ! 

Over the hill-tops, the little stars peep ; 

Royally rises the moon, shaking free her trailing tresses, 

Sleep on earth's eyelids presses 

Like lover's soft caresses. 

Sleep ! Sleep ! 
Low plaints the plover's cry, 
Maidens to love-trysts hie ; 
All Nature lies at ease — 

Sleep ! Sleep ! 

Sleep ! sleep ! good-night ! good-night ! 
Fainter the light, in the woodlands deep; 
Slower the clear sluggish waters flow over their green 
dewy cresses, 

135 



136 TWILIGHT SONG. 

Sleep with its touch blesses — 
Hearts that Day's pain oppresses — 

Sleep ! Sleep ! 
Low through the vine-strung trees 
Sings the wind lullabies ; 
All Nature lies at ease — 

Sleep ! Sleep ! 



' FAREWELL ! AH, WHO DID BREATHE THAT 
WORD." 

Farewell ! ah, who did breathe that word ? 

Not thy fond heart, nor was it mine ; 
And yet 't was said ! Alone I pine. 

As droops forsaken bird. 
Farewell ! ah, fatal word unspoken. 

By thy stern power our faith is broken, 
Nor can we e'er the severed ring regain — 

Though we may yearn again ! again ! 

Farewell ! the lute lies all unstrung, 

Untouched of hands that once could wake 
Such melodies as seraphs make 

When they in raptured praise have sung. 
Farewell ! ah, heart. Love's rose lies dead, 

Its leaves upon the winds are shed, 
Farewell ! for us this time no more 

Lives here — but on another shore ! 



137 



WHERE HANGS A ROSE. 

PROVENgAL SONG. 

Day after day, in the glare of the street, 

Lonely I stand, weary I cry — 
" Fresh roses, see ! '* all pass me by, 

Weary, alone, in the cold, in the heat. 
Only the freshness of the flowers 

Soothes my heart, mine eyelids close. 

A long white road I see — a shore 

Lapped by crisp blue waves, o'er and o'er 

And a cottage near, where hangs a rose, 

Ah, God ! the smell of that rose at the door. 

I stretch my hand — the rose is gone 

Lonely I lie in the silent street. 
138 



WHERE HANGS A ROSE. 1 39 

The wind blows cold, the raindrops beat — 
The flowers are dying — one by one. 



Strange, that to-night I feel no cold — 

A warmth through my being gently flows — 

My tired heart seems lulled to rest, 

Floating on and on, in a dream ever blest, 
Down the white road, where hangs the rose. 

At last, it is here, on my lips, at my breast ! 



L'ECHO DU CGEUR ! 

La lune sur les montagnes leve sa voile, 

Et me vois a la porte de ma chaumiere 
Te cherchant de ma vie, Tetoile. 

Viens a moi — viens a moi ! 
L'echo prends ta voix 
Comme le souffle de ma joie. 
Ah, viens a moi, viens ma lumiere 

Toi qui est le soutien de ce coeur brise 
Ah, viens a moi, toi qui est ma priere 

Uecho porte ta voix, le vent ton baiser. 

La lune derriere les montagnes se couche 
Mais moi a ma porte je reste immobile— 

Te cherchant toujours — rien me touche. 
Tu ne viens pas — tu ne viens pas — 
140 



n^cHo Du cmuRt 141 

L'^cho de mon coeur 
Me fait grand peur ! 
Ah, tu ne viens pas ! Non, c'est inutile ! 

Sans toi, mon ame est comme enfant sans mere ; 
Sans toi je suis comme lampe sans Thuile; 

L'echo du loin apporte une voix amere. 



''PUT YOUR SWATE FOOT TO THE FORE/* 

That big yaller daisy 

Arnost sets me craisy, 

The breath of the Spring 's at the dure ; 

Come, Bridget, me darlin'. 

Lave workin an' quarlin — 

And put your swate foot to the fore. 

Awhist now, me colleen ! 

Me white-throated Baubeen ! 

Come, give me your bit uv a hand ; 

For shure ! in your bonnet 

Wid the big posies on it — 

You 're the purtiest gurrl in the land ! 

Hark ! hear the burrds callin'. 
The stars, they are fallin', 
Wid thryin* to peep through the dure ; 
142 



'PUT YOUR SWATE FOOT TO THE FORE^ I43 

One — two — are you ready ? 
Then stiddy — girl — stiddy ! 
Come, put your swate foot to the fore. 



CHORUS. 

So ! aisy, me darlin' ! 

To keep ye from fallin', 

Whist ! give me your hand now, asthore ! 

We '11 foot it together 

Come fair or foul weather 

Thin put your swate foot to the fore. 



